Unexpected Results
by nathan-p
Summary: Fax. Max gets pregnant. Jeb finds out. A rather vicious satire of the typical Fang/Max pregnancy story. Hints of Jeb/Reilly, but nothing serious.


"Y-you're _what_?" I gaped at my wayward daughter, silently praying she hadn't just said what I thought she'd just said.

"Pregnant." She smiled. "It's Fang's."

She _had_ said what I'd thought she'd said. Why hadn't I caught it on tape?

"You're sure," I said, switching over into scientist mode, rather than father mode. It hurt less, especially when I was dealing with Max.

"Yes, Jeb," she said, voice thick with sarcasm. "I'm sure."

I'd never bothered to give her the "use protection, damn it" talk.

And yes, I was regretting it now.

"Absolutely, 100 percent?" I had to be sure.

She rolled her eyes. "_Yes_, Jeb. We even tested my blood."

We?

She must have corralled Valencia into it somehow.

"Oh, God," I whispered, clutching the wall for support. We'd never planned for this. None of the avian-human recombinants were supposed to be fertile. And they certainly weren't supposed to be able to... reproduce naturally. "Oh, _God_."

She brushed by me, towards the kitchen. "Whenever you're done."

I moved fast, taking my opportunity while it was in reach -- she was still light enough that I could restrain her easily, and it didn't take me long to find a usable vein so that I could sedate her.

"I'm sorry, Max," I murmured, brushing her hair away from her forehead as I checked her pulse. Normal, for her. Maybe a little fast. "But this is for your own good, sweetheart."

Rationally, I knew she couldn't hear me.

But I talked to her the entire (all too long) drive to the School.

* * *

"Reilly, be reasonable. They just weren't designed to reproduce."

"But... Dr. Batchelder..." Dammit. Reilly was almost... _cute._ He bit his lip. _Dammit._ "Didn't you want to know if the avian-human recombinants could reproduce?"

"Yes," I said, _trying_ to be reasonable. Which was difficult, given that Reilly was acting like a kid on Christmas. "Medically speaking, though, it's just too dangerous to allow... this recombinant to carry the fetus to term."

"But... if we don't remove the fetus now..."

"She'll die, Reilly."

"Dr. Batchelder," he said impatiently, "even if that happens, we'll have tested whether the avian-human recombinants can reproduce."

"Reilly," I said, _trying_ to be gentle (so help me God, I actually _liked_ him, as much as I tried to seem like I didn't), "we can't let this one die."

"Why?" he pleaded, looking for all the world like a little kid begging for a toy.

I hesitated, unable to admit that she was my daughter, that I didn't want to kill her like that -- if she was going to die because of something I did, please God let it be a painless death. "Because," I said, "she's from the first generation of recombinants."

"Oh." He blinked, and a disappointed, crestfallen look came over his face.

"Reilly, I know testing these hybrids means a lot to you, but... we just can't risk one of the first-gen recombinants like this," I said gently.

"OK." He sighed.

"But..." I said, dragging the word out.

"What?" He perked up. God bless the kid.

I glanced over at Max. The anesthetic I'd put her on a short while ago was starting to take real effect. We'd be able to start soon.

"I've been thinking. The second generation of avian-human recombinants will hit maturity soon. _They've_ been designed to be fertile. Would you like to help me out and test that aspect?"

He grinned. "Of course."

"Great." I looked up at the monitor tracking Max's vital signs. We should probably start now. "You ready?"

"I was _born_ ready, Dr. Batchelder," he said, grinning like the village idiot.

"Call me Jeb," I said.

* * *

I straightened up, and heard my back crack audibly. We'd been at this for what felt like hours. "Scalpel," I mumbled.

Reilly located the tool I wanted and passed it to me. He made a good nurse.

We were almost done, anyway. It was a fairly simple surgery to begin with, and I knew what I was doing -- besides extracting the fetus (really more of an embryo at this point, but I had no clue how far along she was), I was... doing a little exploratory work, mostly at Reilly's suggestion. All very delicate stuff, mind you.

And for me it really wasn't exploratory: I was taking the opportunity to point out a little of Max's inner anatomy to Reilly as I worked.

He was particularly amazed by her air sacs (which made me more than a little proud).

"OK," I murmured, more for his benefit than mine. "We're all done with the tough part. Let's just sew her up."

"'Kay," he said, totally engrossed in what I was doing. If he'd been able to, he would have been taking notes.

As it was, I'd kept him busy.

I let myself be absorbed in the work at hand, stitching carefully and evenly. I'm not a surgeon by nature, but when I have to be one, I'm not terribly bad at it.

She would be angry when she woke up. Most likely violent as well. (But I'd already won her hate, by being what circumstances had forced me into being. This wouldn't be as painful as it could have been, I reminded myself.)

I could cope with that. I'd been dealing with her rages since she was an infant. And even if it were Reilly who had to take the brunt of her fury (because I didn't doubt she'd get physical when she discovered what I'd done to her _to save her life_)... he'd dealt with violent recombinants before.

I knew he could take it.

I'd almost finished suturing when she began to slip away.

She didn't start seizing -- nothing so dramatic. But her heart rate began to drop, steadily.

I couldn't shake the thought that it was almost like she _knew_ what I'd done -- that she'd decided to die rather than live with it.

I tried to save her. Reilly's voice was in my ear, asking what he'd have to do to save this recombinant's life: I gave him the answers I had, and oh, God, they weren't good enough.

We'd never anticipated this.

In the end, I had to let her go.

Oh, believe me, I took no joy in killing my daughter. Why would I have? All I felt was a sick, rolling numbness -- as I had so many times before, I'd pushed my emotions aside, giving them up in exchange for the gift of swift action.

But I was left empty in the end.

Harrison insisted on conducting the autopsy.

She didn't ask me to stay.

I sat outside the operating room, feeling... maybe _tired_ would cover some of it. Exhausted. And depressed. Deeply, deeply depressed.

I didn't have the energy to look up and confirm who it was when Reilly sat down beside me.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

"You just wanted to test her," I said, broken and bitter.

"Dr. Batchelder," he said, and then corrected himself (I won't pretend it didn't make my heart stop for a second), "_Jeb._"

I didn't say anything -- I felt as though I'd been struck dumb.

"I know she was your daughter," he said. "But..." He hesitated.

"I should feel _something,_" I said miserably, breaking my silence.

"You will," he said, as if determined to prove it to me.

Again I had nothing to say, nothing I could say to disprove him.

"It..." He sighed. "I..."

I'd always admired this quality in Reilly: when words failed him, he fell back on action.

He leaned closer and kissed me chastely on the cheek.

"It's gonna be OK," he said, whispering into my ear.

He put his arms around me, moving with awkward grace, and I didn't flinch away.

I'd killed my daughter while trying to save her life -- failed her in the worst way I could think of. And now that she was gone, I had nothing and no one left to live for -- nothing, save my work (always a poor substitute for families, lovers, friends, but always good enough for me).

But Reilly... Reilly had the faith and determination I needed. I've always been a little flighty by nature -- always needed someone sensible to be my guide.

With him, I could study the avian-human recombinants as they reacted to the death of their leader. Could experiment on the next generation to see if, perhaps, they could survive pregnancy and childbirth (as the autopsy results would reveal: Max never could have carried a child to term, no matter how much she wanted that child).

I have never excelled at dealing with grief. The best I can do is funnel it back into my work.

But this time... this time I _swore_ it would be different. I'd avenge my only daughter. Redesign her. Improve what had been elegant, make it _perfection_...

All this, because Reilly would be willing to help.

With him at my side...

I was going to save the world.


End file.
